Am I Perfect Yet?
by Kanahit
Summary: My name is Hermione Granger, and I strive to be perfect. I must be perfect. It's not an option. It's a requirement. It's expected of me. Am I perfect yet? Self harm, bulimia, suicide, character death, etc. Different characters each chapter.
1. Am I Perfect Yet?

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Harry Potter series. None of the characters are mine. Anything you recognize as pertaining to the books or movies is **not mine**. Now let the story begin…

They don't know my secrets. What I do at night, when darkness is plentiful, when my bed curtains are drawn shut. When nobody else in the dorm is awake; nobody else can see. They don't know what's in my little box; in my bag; under my pillow; in my bathroom cubby; slipped into the binding of my books. Hidden in the hem of my jeans. Behind the Gryffindor crest on my robes. Everywhere. They don't know what I'm hiding, or even that I'm hiding anything. I've become quite good at concealing things, you know. None of them suspect a thing. Thank Merlin for _scourgify_ charms.

My false smiles, the cheery laughter, the passing grades... That's all you need to focus on, right? Right. Everything's fine if you're happy and smart. Perfect. What more could one need? Show up at supper regularly, and everything's just great. Eat enough so as not to arouse suspicion, and excuse yourself to finish your Transfiguration essay. Nobody suspects a thing. Nobody. That's the wonder of it…

"I'm going to head up to finish that essay that's due tomorrow. I don't know _how_ I forgot that it's due. I'll talk to you two later!" I say brightly as I stand up and wave to Harry and Ron. Harry mumbles a _"Bye Hermione,"_ and immerses himself in the _Daily Prophet_ once more. Nobody's died that we know. Yet. Ron just makes a strange grunting noise, forking more mashed potatoes into his gaping mouth. Honestly, I can't see how that boy can stand to eat that much.

I push my chair in and stride out of the Great Hall, turning left once I'm out of the noisy room. As I walk up the many staircases, the portraits converse with each other, sparing only a glance for the student wandering the castle. My footsteps echo off the stone structure of the ancient building as I stride down the familiar corridor and push open a door. A tearful ghost lets out her usual wail as she rockets down the pipe of a broken sink.

I shake my head, walking into one of the rarely used stalls. After a moment of rooting through my pocket, I find an elastic wrap and tie my bushy hair back into a ponytail behind my head. Crouching down onto my knees, two fingers slip into my mouth almost of their own accord and flex. I feel a small heave in my stomach, and do it again, shoving them a bit deeper. With a little manipulating, my supper is streaming out over my hand and into the water of the ceramic toilet bowl. The most recently eaten to least recently; the most calorie dense to least. A dark, rich brown from the cake, milky white from a few bites of ice cream, pale chunks of pasta, reds from the tomato sauce, greens from the lettuce, and finally some bright orange bits from the carrots; my signal I'm done.

I remove my fingers and use some toilet tissue to wipe the food from my hand and mouth, and then toss it into the toilet with the rest. Standing, I flush the colorful mixture and walk out, going to the sinks to wash up. I roll the sleeves of my black Hogwarts robes to my elbows and carefully wash my hands of any evidence. My knuckles are beginning to bleed slightly each time I do this: a side-affect from the stomach acid sliding over them so often. No worry; I'm getting better at being able to just push on my stomach just below the left side of my ribcage and heaving. It's coming up easier every day. Quieter, too.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and gaze at my arms. White, purple, pink, brown, and shockingly red marks blemish my skin, going in every direction. Small groups of parallel lines, carved designs, haphazard slashes. I feel my lips curve into a faint smile, and cup my hands beneath the water. I wash my face and dry the water off on my sleeve. Then I decide to just slip the robes off, since they're wet now anyway. Carefully, meticulously, I fold them and lay the bundle on the sink next to the one I'm at. That's how my life is. Everything done to perfection. Nothing but perfection is an option.

My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my pleated uniform skirt and soon find a rip in the fabric. Moments later, a thin, glittering steel blade is pulled out, held deftly between my pointer and middle fingers. The familiar feel is almost soothing. Almost. I turn the razor over in my fingers, examining every detail of it. The abrupt change in the shine as the sides slant toward each other to form a perfect, flawless edge. The way the thicker, rounded rectangle of metal is folded over the dull edge to make the metal easier to hold onto in ones fingers. An oval shaped hole directly in the center of the flat plane, and one half oval on either blunt end. Every bit of it is as perfect and flawless as the last.

My eyes abruptly change their focus onto my arms. It's a foolish place to do anything self-inflicted, I know. But it's most convenient, and while I've never been overly fond of sleeveless shirts, I've been studying glamour charms to mask the outward marks if I ever need to. Until such an occasion appears, however, I choose to enjoy being able to glance down, slip my sleeve up ever so slightly, and see a quick glimpse of red to calm me before returning my attention to the lesson.

Softly, my fingers trail over the freshest wounds. Miniscule scabs break away, and I watch as equally miniscule droplets of red rise up to take their place. I close my eyes and trace each scar and wound on my arm. I silently count them in my head as I go along. Each time I lose track of where I was or count the same mark twice, I start over at the beginning once more.

It's become almost a ritual now. My life has become a ritual. Each day is as carefully planned out as the next. From when I wake up, to my classes, to what I eat, how many bites I take, how many lines on each roll of parchment, the number of times I tap my quill, this… It's all done to perfection. Shining, precise, exact perfection. Nothing but my best is acceptable. Every letter must be identical. Every line of writing perpendicular to the edge of the paper. Every single one of my teeth straight and porcelain white, with the help of charms. Every bite of food quickly and carefully calculated, measured, timed. A never ending cycle of perfection.

I finish counting, and smile again. A nice, even, round number. Perfect. As usual. Gently, I let my blade ghost over each and every line marking my pale flesh. Crimson droplets roll down my arm, leaving a red trail in their path. Like one long, straight, perfect footstep. More perfect than I'll ever be.

The truth is, I'm not as perfect as everyone believes I am. I'm never going to be perfect, but not being perfect is not an option for me. It never was, and it never will be. I _must_ be perfect. I _have_ to be perfect. The best. The smartest, the neatest, the thinnest… It's never going to end. Not until I'm perfect. Only when I have achieved that state of perfection will I be worthy enough. Worthy enough for what, I don't know. But I'll know once I'm perfect. I won't be perfect until I know. Knowing and perfection go hand in hand.

I watch as my hand drags the small piece of steel across my skin as if it has a mind of its own. I don't stop it. There's no need to. Blood quickly fills the cavern created in my skin and spills out, running down my arm, my wrist, my hand, and into the whiteness of the sink. It looks almost orange against the blinding white porcelain.

Another slice, parallel to the first. Wounds just beginning to heal are ripped open again, blood flowing out to join the rest. The blade switches hands and slices twice in exactly the same spots on my other arm. Exactly. Yet again, a smile forms on my lips. The feeling is exhilarating; refreshing. It's almost like a high. I gaze at my arms, and a faint giggle escapes my throat.

_Almost perfect._

I walk to the door and peek out into the hallway. All is silent. Curfew has passed by now, and Ron and Harry are probably playing chess in the Gryffindor common room like they do every night. Slowly, I walk to the staircase and make my way down. They stop moving at night. They don't switch between classrooms as they do during the day. There's no need to.

My footsteps echo as quietly as they did earlier. The portraits are slumbering quietly in their frames. A few of them are snoring. Scarlet drips from my fingertips, making its way from my arm to the stairs and floor. It's beginning to slow, and I'm feeling only slightly faint. Not much blood has been lost from my wounds. The cuts weren't that deep. Just enough to bleed nicely. I step over the vanishing stair and a few moments later, I am standing in the entrance corridor near the Great Hall. The house hourglasses rest in niches in the stone wall, gems glittering in the faint moonlight from the tall windows. Rubies for Gryffindor, topaz for Hufflepuff, sapphires for Ravenclaw, and a deep emerald for Slytherin.

I look down at my arms and smooth my fingers over the drying blood that has caked on. The razor is still held in my fingers. I slash at each arm, reopening the wounds. They begin to bleed in earnest again, and I can't move my eyes away in morbid fascination. I cup my hand and blood begins to form a small pool. Quietly, I walk to the blank wall just below the hourglasses. Dipping three fingers in the blood held in my hand, I raise them above my head and spread the scarlet liquid over the stone in almost mechanical movements.

Feeling a bit dizzy now, I lower myself to the floor in front of the wall, leaning my back against it. I wipe the silver blade against my skirt to remove the redness. For a minute, I watch the blood slowly stream down my arms. My body is buzzing almost pleasantly. Yet at the same time, it's numb.

I feel only a brief, sharp pain as I swipe the sharp metal against the arteries at the back of each knee. Another sharp pain for both cuts from elbow to wrist. Across each wrist. A quick stab deep into the large artery visible in the crook of my elbows. The blood is flowing quickly now as I let the blade fall from my fingertips. The hall around me is beginning to spin, slowly one way, then a tug and its tilting and spinning the other way. Black spots of random sizes flash across my vision, each one outlined with specks of colors, like glitter. I tilt my head back to gaze up at the dripping scarlet on the wall. Suddenly, I feel a weight being lifted from my chest, I'm light as air, and I'm spinning, falling…

Four words grace the wall beneath the shining hourglasses. Four words will greet each and every Hogwarts student come morning. Four perfect, straight, identically sized words.

_Am I perfect yet?_


	2. You Always Were

**Author's note**: This plot has been in my head for four months and I'm finally getting it out. It is a continuation of _Am I Perfect Yet_? and at the moment, I have five more planned for the series, though this may change.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything related to the Harry Potter series. None of the characters are mine. Anything you recognize as pertaining to the books or movies is **not mine**. Now let the story begin…

* * *

I'll get right to the point. I'm Draco Malfoy, and I'm not what everyone thinks I am. Yeah, sure, I know I'm drop-dead gorgeous, but come on… I mean… Fuck, I can't do this. I don't know what I can't do, but I can't do whatever the hell this is. What is this, really? I guess I'll start at the beginning and let you decide for yourself.

_Two hours ago…_

I can hear my footsteps echo quietly in the vast, empty hallways of Hogwarts. The sound is kind of soothing. As strange as it may sound, hearing my own footsteps has always been calming. It quietly proves to me that I'm still alive. I'm solid enough to make noise. I'm still here. For now, at least. My father hasn't taken that away from me yet. He's taken almost everything else away from me in my life, but he can't take this away from me. It's the one thing that's mine and purely mine to do whatever I want with. Whenever I want to. The only thing restricting me is myself and myself alone.

My eyes wander upwards, gazing at the seemingly endless blackness of the ceiling. Is it really a ceiling? The rafters just go up and up until you can't see them anymore. On the days that everything's bright and lit, everyone's in too good of a mood to look up and know. The questions are left for those who wander in the night and gaze up at the darkness, perhaps looking for themselves in it.

I don't know when I started wandering the castle at night. I suppose it was some time in my fifth year. I've had a lot to think about lately. I'm only seventeen, but that's one of the milestone years. Here at Hogwarts, you're elite. You're seventh year or damn close to it, and you're at the top of the pyramid. Nothing can stop you; nothing can hold you down. Teachers don't bother you anymore or chastise you because they know you're going to be gone soon anyway and you'll be someone else's problem then. They won't have to deal with you anymore. If you blow up something, they don't have to be there to deduct points or hand out detentions. And besides, they were probably hellions in their seventh year, too.

Seventh year is your last chance to be a kid. Your last chance to be a teenager in a place where there's hundreds of kids that are there to have fun with you. You don't have to go to a job or act mature. Except if you're Head Girl or Boy, but that's another topic altogether. Seventh year, you're legally of age to do what you want to. You could walk off the grounds, apparate to London and shop around, then apparate back to Hogsmeade and walk back through the gates. They can't fault you for it, because you're an adult. But you're still living in a teenager's world and they can't fault you for that. They're the ones keeping you there, anyway.

I'm pulled back to reality as my hand grasps something cold and solid. My mind briefly drifts back to morning when I was running late and dropped a bottle of emerald ink into the pocket of my robes so I wouldn't have to find the right pocket in my bag. It bothers me when things are out of place. Then I had arrived in Transfiguration and realized it was the wrong color. Really, black and emerald look the same when they're in a trunk.

I turn around a corner and lower my head so I won't look like a turkey, because occasionally I've run into a couple students this late heading to the Hospital Wing. Not often, but enough that I don't stare at the ceiling near the Great Hall. It just wouldn't do for a Malfoy to be seen like that. Not that I should care, anyway. My feet lead me slowly down the hall, my eyes scanning the empty portraits hanging on the wall. Most of the occupants are on the third floor in a large painting of a landscape inhabited by fairies. You have to wonder where they get all the rum. Maybe there's someone sitting in a room far away, spending every day painting barrels and bottles so paintings can have their rum. And there's probably some sadistic bastard painting empty barrels.

The usual few torches hanging on the walls light the hallway with a light bright enough to see, but not even close to daylight. They never seem to burn out or char the walls. As I near the hourglasses that track the house points, a glint catches my eye as a few of Ravenclaw's sapphires fly back up into the top bell. I briefly wonder what happened. Maybe just a student out of bed, or maybe something more scandalous.

But then something else catches my gaze. It looks like someone wrote on the wall with dark ink. It's still glistening at the bottom where it dripped. I get closer and stop as the writing becomes clear to me. '_Am I perfect yet?'_

I look down at the crumpled form I noticed only then. My knees feel weak and I let them give as my hand reaches out to press two fingers to a thin, pale neck. No pulse. Not the faintest flutter of movement under them. I look at the figure's face with a hint of desperation. But they didn't deceive me the first time.

"Her… Hermione…"

Her name slips past my slightly parted lips in barely more than a whisper. It's as if saying it any louder will break the air itself. Shatter time and existence itself into millions of irretrievable pieces. I look up at her message again. Now I know it isn't ink. It's close to ink, but not ink. It's a medium I've used several times before, even on a few class assignments just to make the professors wonder. They glanced at me, but never said a word about it. I guess that's one perk about being a Malfoy. If you can call it a perk.

I shake my head and look down at her face again, gently stroking her soft cheek.

"You stupid girl… You were always perfect… You always were… And this stupid boy never told you…"

I bend down and brush my lips over hers as my hand trails from her cheek to her neck, shoulder, and down her body to her hip, where it stops. Her body is still warm, but cold at the same time. Cold from being empty of a soul. My eyes close, my lips an inch from hers.

I shouldn't have changed my mind at supper. I should've talked to her weeks ago. Months ago. Told her how beautiful she is, how wonderfully perfect, how I don't fucking give a damn if she's Gryffindor and I'm Slytherin. How I don't care about the Malfoy name, because it's just that. A name. A name that binds me to a horrible man that I have the misfortune to be the son of. How worried I was when I noticed her losing weight, more and more as the weeks went by. How I… How I'd realized that like it or not, I was in love with her. But now it was too late.

During supper I made the decision that I was going to do it. Fuck everyone's opinion. When she got up to go to the bathroom, as I knew she did, I was going to stand up and kiss her right in the entrance. I was going to put my arms around her and kiss her with all my heart, so she'd know exactly how I felt about her. No doubts at all.

But Pansy, the insolent brat, was pouting at me to eat more. I guess my appetite was dwindling as I thought more and more about Hermione. I read once that eating disorders are contagious in a way. Maybe that's true. It's logical… Anyway, I ate a couple bites of a sandwich to make her shut up. By the time I looked up again, only Potter and Weasley remained in their places at the end of the Gryffindor table, obliviously stuffing their faces with food.

Once again I look at the words drying on the wall. I take the bottle of ink from my pocket and remove the small cork, letting it drop to the floor and roll away. I pull myself to my feet and wet my fingers with the glistening emerald liquid that still looks black in the dim light. In the same motions as the beautiful woman lying at my feet, I use two fingers and write three words below her message.

I look down at her yet again, crouch, and brush her hair out of her face. She looks so peaceful now…

_Now…_

After that, I fixed her clothes and walked away. I couldn't do anything for her. She was already gone. They say that no matter how much you love someone, you'll still step back when the pool of their blood edges too close. If my pants weren't black, the knees would be red as I sit here in the bathroom. I have a small cauldron on the floor in front of me and a small flame is flicking beneath it. I stir the contents gently clockwise and watch the shimmering light blue potion swirl and bubble. White steam rises slowly from the surface. It quickly changes to dark red when I add the final ingredient, _anacharis najas_. It isn't toxic like its cousin, but it's what the potion requires. The cousin would ruin it.

I look at the window and notice the sky is slowly turning from dark to light. The sun will rise soon, and with it the students will rise as well. As they make their way to breakfast in the Great Hall, they'll find Hermione and our messages. Someone might recognize my handwriting, but chances are that they won't. There won't be a search for me. Someone will find me here after breakfast. Maybe they'll think I'm just asleep. They'll go to Snape and tell him that I fell asleep in a strange place again. It happens sometimes when I accidentally spend the whole night wandering. Snape might come to get me, or he might not. Sometimes he puts me in Slytherin or the Hospital Wing. Or he just kicks me.

Eventually, they'll realize I'm dead. And they'll wonder why. A lot of them will put together the clues and dismiss it as a coincidence. Or me being dramatic. They don't need to know, because none of them ever really cared about me. They cared about being associated with the name, and that was it. Nothing more. Nothing about the boy behind the name. The boy who lived the name.

I stir the potion counterclockwise now and fill a chipped mug with its contents. I dump the rest down the sink and take a minute to look at my reflection in the mirror. The mug is in my hand, the same color as the cauldron resting in the sink. My eyes have dark circles under them and my skin is pale from fatigue, but my cheeks are tinged a faint pink. Everything's about to end. No more of anything at all. No more worries, no more fears, no more anything.

Looking down at the mug, I raise it to my lips and tilt my head back, drinking the contents in a few swallows. I set it down on the thin ledge under the mirror and let a smile grace my dry lips. Without Hermione, what reason do I have to stay here in this world? No reason at all. So now I walk around the circle of sinks until I come to the windows overlooking the grounds. I seat myself on a porcelain sink and lean against the mirror, ignoring the faucet digging against my tailbone. I just watch the sky slowly turn pink at the same time the world turns dark.

"You were perfect, Hermione... You always were."

As the screams of a second year girl ring through the halls, Draco's soulless body falls sideways, laying him out over the sinks. Later Blaize will find him, but until then, he will lay upon the porcelain until his body grows cold. Three emerald words have seeped into the stone wall in front of the Great Hall, binding Draco's memory to the castle. Binding the story to the students to be spread around like wildfire. The story of a girl who asked if she was perfect yet, and the boy who waited too long to tell her.

_You always were._


	3. Why, Why, Goodbye

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Harry Potter series

**Author's Note:** Yay for another update! My muse is back and I'm taking advantage of it any time I feel like it's a good time to write. I didn't take the chance a week ago and I'm not going to make that mistake again! Then again, if I'd taken advantage of it then, I might not have come up with the sequels to _Am I Perfect Yet?_ I apologise that this chapter is shorter than Draco's chapter, but Draco refused to cooperate the other day unless I let him ramble on about painting empty rum barrels and the ceiling. Harry doesn't like talking. And I don't really like Ron. I don't have a muse for him.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything related to the Harry Potter series. None of the characters are mine. Anything you recognize as pertaining to the books or movies is **not mine**. And here we go again…

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My name is Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, Scarhead, boy, whatever you want to call me. Chances are that you know my story, and if you don't know it, ask just about anyone you see. They probably know my story better than I do. My story's spread around all over Britain and probably other places, too. Anywhere there's a witch or a wizard. It's not something I'm proud of. You'd be one sick bastard to be proud of the fact that the entire wizarding world, scarce as it's becoming, pities you because your parents were betrayed by their best friend and murdered by some freak leading a band of dimwitted drones as a result.

I'm not the only one here. My friend Ron Weasley's right next to me. We're both just sitting here in the dormitory, a bottle of firewhiskey held in each of our hands. To hell with the drinking age. We know Hermione wouldn't have approved of this. She wouldn't have approved at all of us sneaking off to Hogsmeade to get the stuff, and she certainly wouldn't approve of us drinking it. But… Hermione isn't here now. And that's the reason we're drinking, I suppose. It's supposed to numb everything in your body, just erase your mind. It's not working. I don't think anything will ever work. Our lives fell apart three days ago. You can't just put the pieces back together and forget it ever happened.

_Three days ago…_

Ron and I are racing each other down to the Great Hall and when I go around a corner, I nearly crash into Professor McGonagall. She grabs me by the shoulders and before Ron crashes into me, I see her face is a pale, mottled color. Professors several feet behind her are trying to push a crowd of students into the Great Hall and back to their dormitories at the same. A few students have tears running down their cheeks. Most of them are pale and trembling a little. The Slytherins look triumphant. One of the younger girls in particular seems more upset than the others. I see Professor Sprout hugging her tightly to herself, her hand moving in slow and soothing circles on the girl's back.

I know something is wrong. Very wrong. There's red on the floor. It's nearly dried in the grooves between the stones that compose the old floor of the entrance hall. _Someone must have been hurt. Fuck. Death Eaters. Maybe some got into the school. But how'd they get past the wards?_ Then I realize McGonagall is shaking me and saying something. Her eyes have an urgent, desperate look to them.

"Potter, go to the infirmary. You too, Weasley. Both of you. Just go, you'll know everything soon."

I hear Ron's voice behind me as he asks in a confused, yet demanding voice what was going on. He apparently doesn't wait for an answer because moments later he's shoving his way through the crowd. His anguished cry reaches my ears and my heart stops. It's Ginny or Hermione. It has to be one of them. But I don't want to believe it. McGonagall doesn't try to stop me as I pull away from her and run to the crowd. They part to let me through and finally began obeying the Professors.

I stop as I reach the front of the crowd. At first all I see was Ron knelt over a girl. I know that body. I know it as well as I know Ron's or mine. It's so small… When did she get that small? How didn't we notice? She'd seemed just fine. I step closer and my knees buckle. I don't bother to grab onto anything. I'm too stunned. The reality of it is finally hitting me. Hermione. On the floor. Something glints in her motionless hand. All I can see is red. Her legs, her arms, everywhere but her face. Her face and her hair are the only clean places left. Her uniform's growing stiff and turning a color between red and brown.

I reach out a shaking hand to brush her hair back and see a streak of dried blood. Someone's touched her already. Someone's lovingly pushed the lock of hair out of the way and gazed at her face. Gently caressed her cheek. I don't dwell on it. I can only stare at her in silence. The shock's taken away my voice. There isn't anything to say to the deafening silence of the hallway. The students have retreated and only the Professors, Ron, and I remain.

Dumbledore quietly walks to us, kneels on one knee, and hugs us both. Neither of us reacts until he gently pulls us to our feet and leads us to the infirmary to have a large dose of a dreamless sleep potion. When we come to again, Madame Pomfrey gives us another potion for shock and sends us to supper. Neither of us feels like eating anything at all. So we just sit there and gaze at our plates, locked into a trance. Everyone leaves us alone. The entire Gryffindor table is subdued.

Halfway through the meal, another startling bit of news trickles across the hall along the grapevine and eventually reaches my ears. Blaise Zabini found Draco Malfoy dead in the boys' bathroom shortly before lunch. Apparently he took his own life as well, by use of a rather complex potion. The ingredients were simple enough and it was quick to brew, but one slip and you became a vegetable for the rest of your life. Malfoy didn't fail. Potions class had always been his forte. I guess it came in handy in the end.

_Now…_

Nobody knows why he killed himself. Nobody knows why Hermione killed herself, either. Or even if they're connected. After her funeral, Dumbledore pulled us away to tell us the truth. We deserved to know the truth about our friend. Ron and I found out that Hermione wasn't as okay as we assumed she was. Her arms were covered in scars and shallow fresh wounds alongside the fatal ones. Her knuckles were scarred and enamel was wearing off her teeth. She'd fallen from the tightrope dividing underweight from normal.

Ron and I are sitting on his bed, shoulder to shoulder with the empty bottles on his pillow. Firewhiskey wasn't the only reason for our trip to Hogsmeade. Both of us have our apparation licenses now, so popping in to London isn't a problem for us. We took some money from my vault yesterday and spent it at a small shop on the outskirts of town. A quick memory charm, and now the man has no recollection of selling two handheld pistols to two young men.

I look to Ron and let the corners of my mouth tilt up slightly. He gives his own mouth the same privilege and I lift my hand to pat him on the shoulder. I close my eyes and rest my head against the wall behind me, letting my mind drift freely for a few minutes as my hand gently caresses the handle of the weapon in my lap. My pointer finger hooks around the trigger and I raise the pistol to my temple, feeling the coolness of the metal against my skin.

"Why?" I whisper to the air.

"Why?" Ron murmurs beside me.

Two shots ring out together as one and a ghostly mantra is lost in the smoke.

_Why, why, goodbye._


	4. This Was Not An Accident

Author's note: Sorry for the long gap between updates, but my muse runs sporadically

**Author's note:** Sorry for the long gap between updates, but my muse runs sporadically. I think it's better to give you guys longer times between good updates than quick, crappy updates. Anyway, thanks to everyone that has reviewed this fic so far. I really appreciate your input and everything. Really, I do. I even save the email prompts I get when I get a review! Also, I now have a livejournal. Check it out on my profile.

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I… I don't know what to say, really. What the hell are you _supposed_ to say when you find out that three very important people in your life have just vanished in the past few days? So I come from a big family. Big deal. Your best friend, your closest brother, and your boyfriend are pretty damn important no matter if you're Ginny Weasley, the youngest in a big family. I don't care if all of England is your bloody family. They're gone and they'll never be here to talk and laugh again…

First it was Hermione. I feel so guilty; I should've noticed something. It… makes sense now, though. Everything. I never saw her without long sleeves. And she was always so protective of her things. Turns out she had razorblades hidden all over. She was a wreck. I stole one and tried cutting a few times, but it just felt so wrong. It helped, yeah, but I don't see how she could stand it. My appetite's sucked since… it… happened. But it isn't nearly as bad as what I found out she went through. I should've noticed that, too. Now that I think back, it's so fucking clear. She was always skipping meals or going off to the bathroom after she ate. And she always looked so concentrated when she was eating. Best friends are supposed to notice shit like that.

I guess Harry and Ron should've noticed, too, but they're boys. Boys never notice anything. But I can't say anything about them. Professor Trelawney is always going on about how you shouldn't speak ill of the… dead. Harry and Ron are gone, too. They shot themselves. They fucking shot themselves. Both of them went off to some shop in Knockturn Alley, bought two guns, and got them into the castle. I don't even want to know how the staff let this happen. They've been on guard ever since Zabini found Malfoy dead after they found Hermione. According to the spells, he couldn't have died more than a few hours after Hermione did. And he had emerald ink in the grooves of his fingerprints. Someone wrote in emerald ink above Hermione. I'd seen him watch her, but I thought he was just plotting something. I… I guess I was wrong. Or maybe I wasn't. What if he was just being dramatic? I wouldn't put it past him to take Hermione as a chance to get his own attention.

Harry… We started dating a few months ago. I knew he and Hermione were close, so I thought he just needed some time. We all needed some time. We still do. Even more so, now. I'll admit I was worried about him. I knew he had a few faint scars on his thighs, so I was more worried that he was going to go back to that than… What happened two days ago. It crossed my mind that it might happen. Of course it did. The professors barely wanted to let him out of their sight. But Hagrid… Hagrid let Harry and Ron leave the grounds to 'get away from everything for a while'. Hagrid thought he was letting them take a much-needed break. He's beating himself up over this. He never dreamed they were going to buy guns. Guns are illegal to own here, anyway...

_One hour ago…_

I glance at the clock and stand up, faking a stretch. My eyes rove across the common room. People are scattered about in small, silent groups. Nearly Headless Nick drifts quietly through the common room, listening to bits of conversation and keeping an eye on students. There's also a ghost in the girls' dormitory and one in the boys', silently going past each doorway. Gryffindor is being monitored the closest. It's like we're all on suicide watch. I guess we are. Potions class has been all theory, not a chopping knife or potion in sight. No knives at meals, either. All of Hogwarts has been transformed into a psyche ward. And all of us are the crazies.

The professors are guarding so many places it's unbelievable. We can't go to the lake and certainly no towers. Only ground level windows will open more than a few inches, and the ropes are gone from the bed hangings. Quite frankly, I'm amazed we've been allowed to keep our shoelaces and our wands. Though that could change soon if a professor has too much time to think. Speaking of professors and thinking, McGonagall is sitting near the portrait hole. I tug my robes tighter around myself and quietly walk over to her.

"Professor McGonagall…?"

"Yes, Miss Weasley? Are you all right, my dear?" she asks, setting a slip of paper in the book open on her lap. It's at the same page it was two hours ago.

"Yes, Professor, I'm… managing. Could I… Could I go down to the kitchens? I just couldn't eat that much at supper and now I'm really hungry." Nobody says 'starving' anymore. We know what true starving is now.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to wait for Professor-"

"Please? I promise I'll be back in just a few minutes. I don't need an escort."

"Well… Very well, then. Be back quickly."

"I will. Thank you, Professor."

I quickly go out of the portrait hole, closing it behind myself. The way to the kitchens is left, but I go to the right. The Fat Lady is asleep, a lone empty bottle peeking from under her pink gown. She'll be asleep for a while. I noiselessly walk through the halls, noting how strange it is for there to not be any people. Sure, it's nearly time for bed, but there's usually always people walking around doing one thing or another… My feet take me further from the Gryffindor common room and soon I find myself exactly where I wanted to go. Tonight a seventh year Ravenclaw is on duty for guarding the Astronomy tower staircase. She's one of the people that don't recognize me as having anything to do with The Golden Trio.

"Hey, what're you-"

"McGonagall told me to come down here and take your post. You look like you need the rest."

The girl nods and hurries away without saying another word. Strange. Tonight was supposed to be Gryffindor's night to be on tower guarding duty. I guess they decided we're all too risky right now to be trusted. Oh well. At least it didn't cause a problem. It probably went a lot easier with a Ravenclaw being on guard tonight. I stand there for a couple minutes, making sure nobody's going to pass by. Nobody does, so I head up the staircase to the Astronomy tower.

You see, I made this plan a couple days ago. And so far, everything's gone perfectly. Almost too perfectly if you know what I mean. It's sort of strange. I almost expect a group of people to be waiting up in the tower to cart me down to the hospital wing or something. I slowly make my way up the staircase, sliding my hand along the smooth wooden railing. It's been worn down so much over the years. So many students have touched it, brushing off microscopic pieces into the dust. It makes you wonder what stories it holds inside. How many students have collapsed against it in a bout of lust, how many it's passed a cold onto, how many it's helped to their last moments of life at the top of the tower.

_Now…_

When I reach the top step, I pull a key from my pocket and put it into the lock. I have to jiggle it a bit for it to go in. It sticks when I try to turn it and for a second I'm afraid it isn't going to unlock, but then it does. Leaving the key in the door, I turn the knob and step into the circular room at the top of the tower. If you can really call it a room. It's more like a platform with a small stone shed that's just the door and staircase. A few telescopes are folded up and laid in a pile beside the so-called shed. One of them has a broken stand.

For a while, I just stand at the top of the tower and look out over the grounds. The sky is growing darker and stars are beginning to appear, looking like dots of glitter scattered around. My gaze travels to the castle, spread wide below me. So many students huddled together, trying to stay quiet in fear of breaking something that they aren't even sure of its existence. Existence is such a fickle thing.

I reach into my pocket and stride over to the rough, splintered table in the center of the tower. My fingers carefully unfold the notecard-sized parchment and lift the end of a large splinter, slipping the parchment underneath. It's held down enough that it isn't going to blow away if a sudden wind picks up. Just a month ago I used the same splinter to hold down my test sheet.

My feet take me to the bellybutton high wall and I pause again, my eyes focusing on the grass far below. I grip the wall and swing my right leg up and over, then carefully twist to get both knees on the wall. Being careful not to fall, I'm on my feet a minute later. The wall is barely a foot thick so while I can comfortably stand on it, it doesn't radiate much security. No matter. I close my eyes and lift my arms out to the sides, feeling slightly silly but not really caring at the moment. There's nobody else around to see me. I can feel a slight breeze beginning to pick up, gently brushing against my hair.

I consider opening my eyes, but I don't. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cool air and gently shift my weight forward. I feel my heart drop in my chest as the feeling of wind picks up and there's nothing beneath my feet. My arms are still spread out, my robes flapping in the wind. I point my arms behind myself towards the sky and I'm free from them in an instant. The wind rushes past my ears, going faster, faster, faster. There's the dull feeling of impact, a sharp pain through my body… Blackness.

High above in the tower, the piece of parchment flutters slightly in the breeze. One sentence is carefully scrawled in the center of it, leaving no doubts behind.

_This was not an accident._


	5. Sorry I'm A Coward

**Author's note:** Yet again, I apologize for the delays between updates. Thank you everyone that has reviewed so far! And to answer some concerns voiced in an email, no, I am not at risk of suicide. These stories are my outlet. Anyway, if you're reading please review if you have the time, even if it's just to say you like it. As for how long this fic will be, the current plan is ten chapters total. Two others are in consideration. This chapter, I'm not too fond of, mainly because this is my first time writing about Neville and partly because I'm forcing my muse. I don't believe I've even read a single fic about Neville. This chapter lacks a flashback as well. On with the show…

* * *

I knew something like this would happen one day. I'm such a coward that it was just bound to happen. My name is Neville Longbottom and I'm a seventh year Gryffindor. I'll never figure out how I got into Gryffindor. It's the house of the brave and I'm the contradiction of bravery. As far from it as you can get, really. These days nobody feels all that brave at Hogwarts or anywhere else in the Wizarding world.

A week and a half ago things began to fall apart. Hermione Granger killed herself in the entrance hall and Malfoy was found dead in a bathroom later that day. I don't know what to think of that… Everyone avoids talking about it. They don't want to think about what could have been going on. In their minds Malfoy's always going to be the asshole that decided he'd get more drama centered around himself if his own death coincided with someone else's.

One week ago is when the Wizarding world finally took more notice. Harry Potter, their prized boy, their savior, shot himself in the Gryffindor tower alongside his best friend, Ron. There's a panic about what is going to be done about Vol… You Know Who. I still can't bring myself to say his name. His Death Eaters are starting to get out of control. They know the Light side has suffered a pretty big blow.

Gryffindor tower is slowly becoming so empty. It's so quiet and somber. Usually Harry, Ron, and Hermione would be up there talking or even… Even Ginny. Ginny's gone, too. Frick, I'm such a coward… Two days after Harry and Ron died I was put on duty to guard the entrance to the Astronomy tower. I was made a Prefect this year so they thought I'd be able to handle it. I was pretty shocked myself that I was a prefect...

I didn't last more than twenty minutes. A cute Ravenclaw girl named Erin took over my post for me and I went down to the kitchens to get something to calm myself down. I guess… I guess about ten minutes after I left Ginny took the post from the Ravenclaw girl and snuck up into the tower after she left. She somehow got a key to the tower. The next morning a centaur called Firenze or something like that showed up at the doors saying there was a student at the bottom of the tower. A note on the table said she'd done it on purpose.

If only I'd stayed on duty a while longer. I wouldn't have let Ginny take over the post. I know I wouldn't have. But I was too much of a fricking coward to stay where I was… I'll never be able to forgive myself for that. It's my fault she died. I can't stand having that weight on my shoulders. It's crushing me. Everyone says it isn't my fault at all, but they don't know anything. It _was_ my fault and it always will be. There are so many things that have been my fault. What I wouldn't give for a time turner so I could go back and change at least some of them. Even just one of them.

Maybe… Maybe the others were right. Everyone always says how suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. My problems aren't going to go away, though. They're going to stick with me forever. All of the time turners were smashed in fifth year at the Ministry and even if they weren't, they're illegal to use except in special circumstances. And even then they can't risk altering reality in any way at all. Everything I want to change will do just that…

I guess that leaves one option then, doesn't it? I'll kill myself. Tonight. Before I have the chance to change my mind. _You can do this, Neville. There's no way you can fail at this…_

_That night…_

"Neville, I can't thank yeh enough fer helpin' out tonight. I'm supposed ter make sure yeh students are all in the castle by dark, but it won't take long."

"It's no problem, Hagrid. I don't mind feeding the Thestrals. You have a good night's rest."

I watch as Hagrid returns to his hut for the night and take off my cloak, setting it down on a nearby boulder. There are so many boulders around the grounds… I check to make sure my note is still in the pocket before pushing the wheelbarrow of raw meat into the Forbidden Forest. The trees creak ominously though there's a distinct lack of wind as I pass by them. I swear they're speaking to each other or to me. Trees have always given me the shivers. Especially when the wind is up high and their branches are silently swaying back and forth. It makes me feel like I'm spying on something I shouldn't be.

After a while, I abandon the wheelbarrow on the edge of the path, pick up a couple handfuls of raw meat, and continue on for another ten minutes to the feeding clearing. I can see several Thestrals milling around waiting for their meal. A twinge of nervousness stabs through my chest, but I force it back. There's no backing out now.

"Hey, I have your food…"

I softly call out to the dark creatures, being careful not to startle them. Some were dozing peacefully, their wings drooped and one back foot cocked slightly. They slowly rouse and meander towards me. I toss a few pieces of meat towards them and I watch in wonder as they scuffle over who gets which piece.

Thestrals are such beautiful animals. Their thin black hide stretched tightly over their bones, ragged leathery wings delicately folded against their bodies. I empty one hand of meat and reach out to stroke the side of a female. She's too busy devouring meat to care at first, but once the morsel is gone she lifts her head and turns her milky white eyes towards me. Her ears flick slightly as if shaking off a fly and she rubs her head against my arm, nearly knocking me over. She grabs some meat from my other hand greedily and trots away to eat it in peace. Two others follow her in hopes of sharing.

By now more Thestrals have arrived and I feel a bit claustrophobic as they begin to crowd around me. I drop the rest of the meat in the general direction of the largest looking ones and glance around before stripping. I don't want them choking on my clothes or anything. I grab a small dagger from my pants pocket and shiver slightly when I feel the night's chill against my skin. My nipples have hardened and my testicles are hugging a bit closer to stay warm and I'd normally feel embarrassed, but I find I don't care right now. Who would care about something like that in a situation like this? Not many people.

I hesitate a bit as I face the Thestrals once more. A young male wobbles unsteadily towards me and licks blood from my stomach where it seeped through my shirt and I relax a little. Steeling myself, I run the sharp edge of the dagger down my upper arm, yelping slightly at the pain. Of course I knew it was going to hurt, but was I ready for this? Did I really want to? _Yes. Yes, Neville, this is what you want. This will fix everything._

The Thestrals are getting a bit nervous, unsure of what to do. They're tamed enough that they're wary of attacking humans. Taking the initiative myself, I walk up to one at random and grasp it by its chin. I slip my thumb into its mouth and it opens obediently. Hagrid probably checks their teeth frequently. Another moment of hesitation, then I force my arm into its mouth. The large creature backs up in confusion, but I keep my grip on its lower jaw and he runs his tongue over the wound. I can almost see the spark in his eye.

I release his jaw and run the dagger over myself a few more times, just enough to bleed. The adrenaline rushes through my blood stream, blocking out the pain after the first few wounds. As a result the last ones are deeper and I'm sure the one on my thigh went through a vein. I can feel my heartbeat through my entire body and the blood's pulsing in time with it.

My eyes close tightly as the other Thestrals come closer to follow the example of the first still suckling at my arm. One in particular seems more feral than the rest and he starts off with a bite. I scream and jerk back, but it entices him more. I can't help but open my eyes as the others are triggered by his actions to stray from their domestication just for this moment.

A second later all I can feel is teeth and tongues ripping at my skin, my blood seeping into the dirt below me. I can't back out now and I don't want to. The adrenaline is glorious, my body is buzzing, and my head is spinning. A dull thud resonates through my body as a famished Thestral mouth break a bone. I don't know or care which one. I'm on the ground now and my screams are probably echoing into the farthest depths of the forest, but nobody's going to be able to get here fast enough. I feel a small set of fangs on my neck and for a split second, all I can hear is the heavy, warm grunting of the Thestrals. Finally freedom, relief, blackness.

On the boulder near Hagrid's hut, a simple note is tucked into the left pocket alongside Neville's wand. His message to everyone left behind is carefully scrawled out in his best handwriting.

_Sorry I'm a coward._


	6. It Was My Fault

**Author's note:** I am **so** sorry for the delay. Writers block, school, testing, NaNoWriMo, and other things have gotten in the way. I also lost my password, and then had issues uploading. Ultimately, I have not written for so long because I haven't needed an outlet. I still do not need one, but I figured I would try my best to write because of the continued reviews and favorite alerts. Thanks! Sorry if this chapter seems out of character. It's difficult for me to write his accent. Again, none of these characters belong to me. And yeah, please don't try anything you read in any of these chapters. If you're feeling suicidal, please call 1-800-SUICIDE. There's always something better than suicide.

* * *

Dumbledore's… Dumbledore's agreed ter let me stay. I don't know how he can stand ter let me, but he's done it. I reckon he's gone right mad, he has. 'Specially after all the dodgy stuff that's been goin' on around here lately. He's going to regret lettin' me stay here. I wouldn't be surprised if he's up in his office pullin' out his hair. I guess I should start at the beginnin', eh? That might make things a bit simpler for yeh. Oh, I almost forgot. The name's Hagrid. Rubeus Hagrid.

Abou' a week an' a half ago, I let Ron an' Harry go to Hogsmeade for some treats from the sweets shop. I didn' see why I shouldn' let them go. Hermione… Hermione killed herself two weeks ago an' they were well upset. Anyone would be after somethin' like that. I bawled my eyes out for two days. Ron's little sister Ginny jumped off a tower an' I figured they were upset about that too… They came back late but I figured they were just bein' teenagers and havin' fun. Tryin' to forget. Turns out they bought some muggle things called guns. They… They shot themselves. It wouldn't have happened if I didn' let them leave an' go… Ron an' Harry… An' now Neville… Neville was my fault too.

The other night I was goin' out ter the Forbidden Forest ter feed the Thestrals we've got livin' out there. It's a beau'iful herd, really. 'Specially when they're all flyin' around catchin' birds. The Thestrals like their meat, especially when it's real fresh. I was gettin' ready to go feed them and Longbottom showed up. Said he was there ter feed the Thestrals ter give me a break. Longbottom was such a good kid, really. Always comin' out here ter me hut ter help… I was supposed ter make sure all the students were in the castle by dark, all of them, but Neville was a good kid. I knew he would get 'imself back to bed as soon as he finished feedin' the Thestrals.

I fell asleep real quick and when I went outside ter feed the flobberworms out in the shed, I saw Neville's cloak layin' on one o' the boulders. The wheelbarrow I put the meat in for the Thestrals every night wasn' back yet. Neville always put it back where I told 'im to put it, so I thought it was a might strange, yeh know. The kid's never made a mistake like that before. I thought maybe McGonagall or Dumbledore told 'im ter get back ter the castle 'cause they saw 'im wanderin' 'round out at night.

I went out ter the forest ter check if maybe he left the wheelbarrow out there. O' course, he could've gotten scared by the Thestrals and jus left it on the path for hem to come an' find it themselves. I've done that meself, when the weather's gettin' bad out or I've got somethin' to do that's real important. Work fer the Order, stuff like that. I do all I can ter help out where I'm able ter help. Got to earn me keep after all Dumbledore's done fer me…

Anyway, I kept walkin' along the path an' one o' the younger Thestrals started followin' me. I noticed his wing looked a bit torn, so I stopped 'im so I could check on it. Don't want any of 'em gettin' an infection or anything. It's real hard to treat hem when they're livin' out here in the Forest. They don't do good bein' kept cooped up in a cage. But his wing wasn't torn. It was part of a cloak. One o' the school cloaks. I thought maybe Neville dropped his an' the Thestral found it or summat.

Then I looked at my hand, and it was red. The Thestrals usually do a good job o' cleanin' up everything after they're done eatin', so I couldn' figure out how Neville's cloak got all messed.

Then it hit me like a Hippogriff.

I ran ter the clearin' where I always feed 'em, and there it was. It was a mess. Blood was everywhere, his shoes were bloody, an'… An' I saw somethin' shiny in the dirt. I went and picked it up and it was a knife. One o' those little ones they use fer Divination class. A dagger, that's it. An' it had his blood on it… I mean, I figure it was his blood. The Thestrals are all so calm, I don' know how this could've happened.

I shouldn't 'ave let Neville go out ter the forest… I shoulda gone out ter feed them. Dumbledore's nuts ter let me stay… I'm never going ter understand the man. One o' the Thestrals came over an' nudged me. There was blood on his fangs an' he jus gave me this innocent expectant look. I pushed his head away and ran ter the castle. I found Dumbledore and told 'im what happened. Or I think I might've. Couldn't really talk that good with the cryin' an' all.

Dumbledore sent me up ter his office. He an' Poppy went out ter the forest. I stood in Dumbledore's office tryin' not ter knock anythin' over. I tried sittin' in a chair but it was too small. It must've been an hour before Dumbledore came back up. He told me it weren't my fault. I knew he was lying but I just let 'im keep talking. There was papers and forms and they took over an hour to do. When we got done Dumbledore told me to head off ter bed. He told me we'd talk about if I was gonna stay or not in the morning.

Fang woke me up when the sun was starting ter come up. The blankets were tangled all 'round me an' I was shivering. Then I remembered the dream I had. I was in the forest an' it was dark. Cold. I heard somethin' walking in the leaves. I turned around and it was one o' the Thestrals. Blood was pouring from his mouth. An'… Neville was on his back just staring at me. Just staring.

Another Thestral ran over flapping his wings an' jumped up an' started attacking him… I heard him screaming… He made 'imself fall. Then 'e… I can't remember now. My dreams are always slippin' away if I think about 'em…

I've got an hour 'till Dumbledore wants ter talk ter me in 'is office. I don' deserve ter stay, but I know 'e's going ter let me. Dumbledore forgave me before, a long time ago. Tha's why I've got my job and this hut and everythin'… Honestly, I don' deserve none of the things Dumbledore's given ter me. None of it. But the man's going ter let me stay and I know he'll forgive me and never say nothin' about it again. Tha's jus' how 'e is.

Tha's why I'm going ter take care of it meself.

Hermione an' Ron an' Harry an' Ginny an' Neville an' even that Malfoy boy did it, so why can't I?

I get up an' put Fang outside ter do his business, pattin' his head. I go over ter my table an' find a scrap of parchment an' a quill an' write a note. I don' know if it's readable, but it'll do. I roll it up an' put it in my pocket an' get me liquor out of my cabinets. I line it up all nice on the table an' clean up a bit. I light a fire in me fireplace an' toss me umbrella in the fire. There's some sparks an' I feel a pain in me chest as me wand burns ter nothin'. Dumbledore always knew I had it an' he let me keep it.

Fang's comin' back inside now. I sit down an' wait for the fire to warm up my hut some and grow. While I'm waitin' I feed Fang all his favorite treats. All the treats I've got left in me hut in the cabinets. I don' remember the last time that dog was this excited. I pick up his chair with his favorite toys an' his leashes an' stuff an' take it outside. I put it far away from me hut an' Fang's followin' me. I tie his leash up to the leg of the chair and clip it ter his collar. I tell him to lay down an' he does. I bend down an' give him a big hug and he gets all excited an' waggin' his tail and lickin' me face. I take the parchment out of me pocket an' tuck it in his collar.

Then I go back to me hut. The fire's gettin' bigger now an' it's warm in me hut like the middle of summer. I pick up a bottle of me favorite drink an' down half the bottle. I close the windows an' lock the doors. I pour out the bottles of liquor on the floor an' the furniture an' think about how much of a waste it is, but then I remember I won't be needin' it. A few bottles are still on the table. I keep me favorite drink in me hand and sip on it, watchin' the fire in the fireplace.

When the drink's gone, I throw the bottle at the wall. I've always wanted ter do that. Then I pick up the other bottles of drink from the table an' throw them in the fire.

* * *

_Half an hour later…_

Professor McGonagall knelt down next to Fang, who was whining and barking loudly. The fire that had engulfed Hagrid's hut had been extinguished but to nobody's surprise, there was no hope of saving him. The noise had alerted everyone in the castle and the other professors were keeping the students inside. Care of Magical Creatures lessons would be cancelled for the rest of the year and a new professor would be found for the next year. Right now, the main priority was to worry about what was going on. Hagrid marked the seventh suicide that term. Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and now Professor Hagrid. Gryffindor was the house of bravery and courage and it certainly took courage to take their own lives, while others argued that it took a coward.

McGonagall patted Fang on his head and slipped the parchment out of his collar. Fang and his things being moved outside and so far from the hut hinted very strongly that the incident with Hagrid wasn't an accident, but the parchment confirmed it.

_It was my fault._

_Take care of Fang, will you?_


End file.
